


Breathe Out

by louise_lux



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-12
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louise_lux/pseuds/louise_lux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger and Rafa spend some time alone together in Mallorca.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Out

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta Eleanor K, she is the coolest. Comments and feedback are much loved.

"Do you want to go?" Mirka asked. She was holding his hand. It was notable because she didn't often do that. Roger looked down at her rings and her nail polish.

"I do," he said, without looking her in the eye.

"Why did he ask you?" Mirka said.

"I don't know."

His palms prickled with sweat. He put his other hand over hers, and then she did the same, so they sat with their hands in a small sandwiched-together pile. "I know…this is a difficult time for you."

The conversation had begun innocently enough a little while ago-- about how much longer Roger might need to recuperate from the ankle operation-- but now it had slipped into deep waters, and unspoken things were swirling about like cold currents. He hated stuff like this. She didn't say anything about how long Roger had taken off from tennis, or about how it was almost following the same pattern as her own injury and retirement. They'd spent the last few months carefully never mentioning the 'R' word.

Mirka freed her hands from his and stood. Her phone had begun to trill.

"You should go, since he was good enough to invite you." She let out a deep breath. "I don't think he'd offer if he didn't really want you there."

"Okay. I will. I'm going, okay?"

"Yep. So, you'd better let him know." She picked up the phone and stabbed a button harder than was needed. "Don’t keep him hanging around."

Roger flopped back on the bed and rubbed at his face and listened to Mirka talking to whomever it was. It sounded like a tour manager; she was telling him that Roger's calendar for the end of the year still wasn't set. No, he couldn't commit, yes, he was still in recovery, hadn't he bothered to read the press release? They couldn't say when he would return to tennis.

His ankle twinged, as if just mentioning it made it hurt. The injury was ancient, from back when he was a teenager. The body broke down eventually, his doctor had said. The body is a fragile mechanism. Sometimes an athlete just had to stop, he'd also said. Roger didn't truly believe him, but he had stopped for three months, ever since crashing out in Miami. It was the first year he hadn't played Wimbledon for ten years. He hadn't got used to it yet.

He watched Mirka moving about the room, getting her diary, making notes, not looking at him. Her hair was sleek and glossy, the colour of honey in a jar. On the mantelpiece a bunch of blushing pink roses sat in a crystal vase. He didn't remember Mirka getting them. Through the picture window, waves on the lake fluttered with white foam in the July winds. They winds came down from the mountains, driven by summer air currents. It was an odd feature of this place.

"I'm going down to the court," he said.

"On your own?" Her phone began to ring again and she sighed and picked it up. "You want me to come?"

"I'll be fine. Don't worry."

"Just be careful," she said. She walked back over and dropped a banana on his stomach, then began to speak to whoever was on the other end. Roger had no idea who it was this time, but she sounded happier to be talking to them.

He took his kit bag and changed in the little pavilion down by the courts. He'd had it fully fitted with a gym and a steam room and a physio bench. He powered up the lights against the quickly fading evening light. He wrapped his feet and ankles tightly and put his shoes on. He peeled his banana and ate it while studying the exercise plan that Gary had emailed him last week.

He plugged in the treadmill and walked for a few minutes, then broke into a jog, not too fast, only a slow easy pace. His legs were stiffer than they should be, and before very long his lungs and legs were complaining. He grimaced. It was unfair that everything should hurt so much. He switched off the machine and stepped off, breathing hard. He imagined Gary's disapproving face all the way through his stretching routine, then he grabbed a racquet from the locker, hoisted a basket of balls and trotted out into the cold to face the flat, grey, stone wall. It was an obliging hitting partner: silent, always available and it never complained when Roger swore at it.

He should call Rafa and let him know he was coming. He should do that today. This evening. Without fail. Mirka had said it was okay.

The racquet handle dug into his palm, eerily unfamiliar after six weeks of not having swung one even once. It might be the longest period of his life so far without one in his hand. His palm ached after ten minutes, and grew sore after twenty, but he kept on hitting because he couldn't stop, and the powerful swing of his shoulder felt good.

He grunted through his teeth. He did it again, louder, and again, until he was doing it with every swing, until finally he threw the ball up, leapt into his serve and _screamed_.

"Fuck," he yelled. "Fuck this." He pounded the balls against the wall until his arm burned, and when he ran out he slammed his racquet down so hard that the rim simply crumpled. He stood, panting. Yellow balls dotted the hardtop, almost glowing in the fading light.

 

***

"You really coming?"

Rafa's voice in his ear held tones of awe, or at least that's what it sounded like to Roger. Then Rafa was back to his usual blunt and practical self. "You come down to Ibiza. We stay five days. Okay?"

"Five days?"

"What? Is this a problem?"

"No." It just seemed like a long time to Roger. Anything could happen in that time. _Anything you want to happen_ , he told himself. "That's great. We can play a lot of golf, right?"

"Yes!" Rafa paused and Roger heard breathing. "Mirka is coming?" Rafa said.

Roger dragged a hand through his hair, hoping his voice sounded normal. He closed his eyes and wondered if they were just being crazy. "Not this time. She said I should come alone."

"Okay."

"Is it a problem?"

"No, no. How is she?"

"Good. Busy, you know, with stuff."

"Xisca too, no? Always she—" Rafa stopped. "Whatever. You coming. This is the good thing."

It was the good thing, he told himself, as he kissed Mirka goodbye the following Friday. She smelled sweet, of some new perfume, and he held her tight.

"Will you be okay?" he asked, crumpling up her silk blouse with his sweaty hands. There was so much they hadn't said, it made his chest all tight, and he thought for one bad moment he was going to cry. "I'll call you."

"Roger," she said, shaking her head. She pulled away and pressed the handle of the wheeled luggage into his palm. "I'll see you next week."

Ibiza airport was full of sunlight. It gleamed on the white painted walls and on the chrome banisters. It fell through high windows and pooled in an unlikely shaft of golden light around Rafa. He was waiting for Roger just beyond the arrivals lounge, the tallest element in the middle of a small sea of kids. He was signing the front of someone's t-shirt. There were muffled squeals when Roger drew near, and Rafa looked up.

His eyes widened and then he looked almost alarmed, and then he broke into a wide smile and held out his hand. The children parted around him.

"Hey," Roger said, clasping his hand. "I made it."

"Hey," Rafa said, tightening his grip until it almost hurt. He slid his other hand up over Roger's bare forearm. Their eyes met for a moment. "Hi, Roger."

"You brought your mobile fan club," Roger said, nodding at the kids, and Rafa giggled, then let go and said something sharply to the kids in Spanish. They all shook Roger's hand and greeted him in various versions of wobbly English.

"Come, we go now," Rafa said, shooing the children away. He took Roger's luggage and strode purposefully away, just as if he were walking along the baseline.

Roger followed, putting on his sunglasses, and didn't look at Rafa's ass even once, apart from to admire the pocket stitching on his jeans and wonder which brand they were.

The car was air conditioned and quiet. An empty Fanta bottle rolled around in the footwell, and the carpet was sandy. The back seat was a tangle of flippers, snorkel masks and beach mats.

"How you getting on with your lefty?" Rafa said, as they drove out south along the coast road, the sunshine spilling over the sea and the dusty bleached roads.

"My lefty? Oh, he went off to play proper tennis," Roger said. Roger had been training with Jesse again, before the injury at least. "He got bored with an old guy like me. We haven't played for months." Roger hadn't played anyone for months, not counting the wall.

"You want play the real one?" He looked over at Roger, brows raised. He looked puppyish and hopeful and kind of impatient. His fingers tapped on the steering wheel, never still. "Can you?"

"The ankle's nearly mended, yeah. If I'm going back on the courts, I need to do it soon," Roger said.

"If?" Rafa narrowed his eyes. Really, his comprehension of spoken English was as good as Roger's. "What?"

"If I decide," Roger said. "You know, to carry on."

Rafa nodded, thumped the steering wheel and then drove one handed, gnawing on one thumbnail. He stopped doing that after a little while and put both hands back on the wheel, which Roger was glad about because the roads were scary. After a few minutes, Rafa sighed.

"You retire? You come to tell me this?" he said.

"No," Roger said. "I don't know. I haven't said anything to—anyone else." He looked across at Rafa. He hadn't even realised he'd been seriously thinking it until right now. Rafa was the sort of person who clarified a lot of things in Roger's head. "I haven't decided."

"And Mirka?"

"We haven't talked about it. But. There are things that, well-- things we don't need to talk about, you know? Sometimes it's like she can read my mind."

Rafa nodded. His glance was sharp and brief. "Oh, yeah? More easy than explain. I know this." He stabbed at the satnav, and a cool female voice said something in Spanish. "I every time get lost in this part," Rafa said, and then he reached over and squeezed Roger's shoulder, just once.

Rafa's house was long and low and built into the hillside. It was painted white, with pale wooden shutters.

"It's very nice, very eco," Rafa said, letting them in. The air was cool after the oven-like heat. Everything was new and gleaming, although there were traces of Rafa's possessions; a single flip flop on the kitchen floor, an empty ice cream wrapper left on a white-painted windowsill. "You must see."

"It's like a cave," Roger said, staring at Rafa's bedroom. A white painted cave. On the floor, a suitcase leaked clothes across the floor.

"It is an actual cave," Rafa said.

"Wow, it's amazing."

The house had a shady terrace and a sunny pool, and a small lemon orchard with a smooth paved path that ran down to a small beach. Rafa took him down there, past an empty chicken coop and vegetable patches that were presumably looked after by someone who was not Rafa. The sea was a deep blue in the midday sun. The beach had a little wooden jetty, and out in the small bay a white boat bobbed by itself. The nearest other house was on the headland.

At the back of the house, surrounded by high link fence and artful shrubs, was a brand new blue-topped tennis court.

"Is very nice, no?" Rafa said, his face gleaming with pride.

"Wow," said Roger, staring about. "It's great. This is amazing."

"This place is special," Roger said, as they wandered back to the house, side by side.

"I think this too. Is why I ask you," Rafa said, then stared at his feet.

Rafa's 4x4 sat alone in the driveway. Roger's luggage still sat on the doorstep where it had been abandoned. They hauled it inside. "Where's everyone else?" he said.

Rafa bit his lip. "There is no one else coming."

Of course, Roger thought. He was aware of his pulse beginning to pick up. They were alone. "Just us?"

Rafa nodded. His lower lip had disappeared, sucked up into his mouth. When he let it go, it was red and full and wet. "I hope you not mind?"

"No, I don't mind."

"You might be bored?" Rafa said.

"Bored? When I get to play the lefty every day?"

Rafa tipped back his head and laughed. "I'm not lefty at golf."

When had they ever been alone together, properly, without eyes watching them or someone waiting for them? He tried to think of a time and couldn't remember a single one. Rafa's jeans were a little low slung, he noticed, and his t-shirt was made of some soft and clinging material that showed the tips of his nipples. He could smell Rafa's aftershave – something very masculine. He'd bothered to put some on this morning and it must be for Roger's benefit.

The silence thickened. Rafa gazed at him, one hand hovering nervously over his stomach, fingertips plucking at soft fabric. Around them, the house was still and silent and Roger became aware of how truly alone they were. Through the sliding glass doors, over Rafa's left shoulder, he could see the white boat out in the bay, bobbing innocently in the sunshine. They'd manoeuvred themselves into exactly this situation.

"I show you your room," Rafa said, smiling right into his eyes. "I think you like. Very nice for sleep. The quiet is perfect. Is next to mine."

He followed Rafa through the house. His room was low-ceilinged with rough white walls and a large bed. The bed was made up with white sheets and four pillows, and at the foot sat a hairy red blanket, folded. There was an ensuite bathroom with a shower—"It uses the water from the rain"-- and a toilet that was apparently connected to some sort of complicated system of filter beds.

"This TV, Roger, look. It runs with man power. We hook you to the treadmill," Rafa said, then failed to not laugh.

"I wouldn't mind," Roger said. They were moving closer by degrees, with small steps. Rafa had folded his arms across his chest. "You can hook me up if you like."

"Yeah? Okay," Rafa said. He was giggling breathlessly, and then they were so close that their shoulders were bumping, and Rafa was staring at him, smile sliding off his face to leave his lips wet and parted and serious. Roger reached out and put a hand on Rafa's shoulder, cupping the hard rounded bump of his deltoid.

"Roger," Rafa said, in a soft choked voice. There were a thousand reasons not to do what he wanted to do, all clamouring in his head, and all the reasons why he should yelling just as loud: he's right there, he wants you to, he's waiting for you, you want him, you _want_ him so much. Hadn’t they come here for this?

Roger kissed him. Rafa's mouth opened against his, and then Rafa was sucking in a huge shuddery breath, almost gasping, like a fish pulled out of water, and then it turned into a hot little moan.

His eyes were open, and he was watching Roger from up close, his lashes making dark spikes against his skin. His lips were soft, was all Roger could take in, unexpectedly soft and clinging and pliant. A curl of his hair brushed against Roger's cheek, and Roger reached up to touch it; it was soft and warm. He pushed his fingers through it and gently cupped Rafa's skull. Rafa brought his hands up to Roger's chest and gripped his fingers into Roger's shirt, pulling at it like he'd fall down if he didn't hang on tight.

"Oh," Rafa mumbled. Roger began to get hard. Rafa had hardly even touched him. "Oh. Oh."

They both pulled back, and there were a few seconds of wild staring when Roger thought that Rafa might run, or hit him, or something.

"Rafa," he said. He realised he had one hand cupped around Rafa's bicep, squeezing him. "I'm sorry—"

"No, no, no," Rafa said. "No." His eyes slid half closed; he was looking at Roger's mouth, dark and focused, so much that he looked almost blank. Roger recognised that look, from when Rafa flung a ball into the air to serve. It hit him then, what they were doing. They were only supposed to play tennis together, not do this.

Rafa licked his lips. He pushed his hips against Roger's, enough for Roger to feel—Oh god—that Rafa was hard. "More," Rafa said.

"If you're sure—I mean, you know—"

"I am sure," said Rafa.

They kissed again, moving closer together so that Rafa's chest was pressed to his. Rafa's lips were wetter this time, and their mouths slid together, opening wider, then wider still. The first touch of Rafa's tongue against his made him stiffen and moan. Rafa seemed to like that, because he melted closer, sliding his tongue deeper into Roger's mouth, licking over his tongue, his teeth, wild and messy and so very like Rafa that he wanted to laugh. Only, he couldn't laugh because he was too turned on.

Rafa put his hands on his waist and began to push him backwards towards the bed, strong and decisive. His grip was delicate and controlled, powerful and yet gentle – a combination of things that Roger hadn't even known would turn him on. Rafa moaned into his mouth when the backs of Roger's knees hit the edge of the mattress.

"Wait," Roger said.

"You want wait? You want—not this?" Rafa's breathing was a mess and his pulse was visible in his neck. "You having second thoughts. I know. Is okay."

Rafa's cock was a rigid line in his jeans, pressing against Roger's body. Looking down, Roger could see the thick bulge of it and could feel how Rafa was pressing it to him. Heat from it was seeping through their clothes to his skin.

"I want your fucking dick in me," he said.

He'd never said anything like it in his life. There was a silence where he heard Rafa swallow hard, then they were both moving, falling to the bed, and Rafa was kissing him again. He pushed his hands up under Rafa's t-shirt, drawing breathless little groans and moans from Rafa's mouth. His body was as solid and warm as Roger had always thought it would feel. Roger dragged Rafa's t-shirt up over his head, and Rafa helped him. Rafa began to pull at the buttons on Roger's shirt one handed. His other hand was down between their legs, tugging at Roger's belt, rattling it open, yanking down the zip.

They couldn't get naked fast enough. Roger got his fingers under the waistband of Rafa's jeans and his underwear and shoved and pushed them both down, Rafa helping, until they disappeared somewhere, anywhere, Roger didn’t care, because Rafa was naked and hard and grinding against him. They wound close, arms around waists and shoulders, thighs pushing together, mouths meeting. Rafa's cock was digging against him, silky smooth heat and sliding wetness against Roger's own. This was insane.

Over the tanned and beautiful curve of Rafa's shoulder, he could see his watch. They'd been alone together in the house for exactly half an hour. Roger clenched his fist.

"What is it?" Rafa said. He put his hand on Roger's cheek and held him, thumb pushing up over Roger's cheekbone. Roger couldn't deal with how gentle his hands were or how melting was the look in his eyes. All his thoughts were snarling up.

"It didn't take us long, did it?" Roger said.

Rafa stared, then pressed his forehead to Roger's, and then he began to laugh breathlessly. His hand trailed down over the base of Roger's spine, smoothing down over his ass, then all the way back up to curl his fingers into Roger's hair.

"No, Roger. It did not. It did not take us long."

Roger put his hand on Rafa's chest, stroking over the muscles there. "We did this on purpose."

"We did." Rafa wasn't laughing now. "We can undo it, also," he said, and his expression collapsed into a frown. "I take you golfing instead of the-- sex."

Golf. They could just play golf. Some of the tension leaked out of Roger's chest. His thoughts cleared a little. "So, we're completely alone?" he said.

"Si," Rafa mumbled, pressing his face to Roger's neck. "But everyone want to come. I tell them no. They think this-- strange."

"Yeah, well it kind of is. Look at us."

"Yeah," Rafa said, and he rolled off the bed and pulled Roger up by the hand, tugging him across the smooth wooden boards. "Come with me."

He let Rafa lead him across the room, watching his bare skin catch the warm afternoon light. There was a huge mirror in the bathroom, filling the wall over the basin. Rafa stood behind him, his hands on Roger's waist. Their eyes met in the glass. Rafa's hair curled in a wild tangle around the sharp line of his jaw, his eyes dark and intense, his mouth— he had the sort of good looks that made Roger melt inside in a mixture of jealousy and lust.

"Look at us," he said in Roger's ear. "Together. We look good, no?"

Roger thought about their faces looking back from hundreds and thousands of photographs and posters and TV screens, but never like this, with Rafa naked behind him, with Rafa's hand going for his dick, to pull and to stroke it. Somehow, they looked even more naked than should be possible. He stared at Rafa's bare thighs. They were paler than the rest of him; the dark hair showed a little more obviously.

Rafa kissed his neck, from the base up to his ear. Roger shivered. "You know how long I want you?" Rafa said.

They did look good, Roger saw. He tilted his head to give Rafa's mouth more room and watched Rafa touch him. He still had finger tape on, one rough band around his index finger. His palm was callused and warm and strong. He raised an eyebrow and met Roger's eyes in the mirror, hot and direct. His palm was getting slick from precome, and Roger's knees were getting weaker.

"Come here," Rafa murmured, and adjusted himself so that his erection nudged between the tops of Roger's thighs, then moaned and pushed forward.

Roger leaned back against the solid heat of Rafa's body, letting his temple press against Rafa's. They watched each other. Rafa's mouth was open, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. His gaze moved slowly over Roger's body, over everything.

"You want me in you?" Rafa said, rocking his hips. He bit at Roger's neck, sucking at his skin. His voice was turned on and teasing at the same time. "This is what you want?"

"How long?" Roger said, although his voice wasn't even. Rafa jerked him steadily, making him squirm backwards. The pressure and slide of Rafa's cock between his thighs was so strange, so unreal, and so good.

"Maybe for _years_ ," Rafa said. His breath was hot on Roger's face, his tone erratic. "Yes. Since the first grass game, and you move like a god." He kissed Roger's cheek, a delicate touch that drowned out everything else for the moment of its existence. "And—you such very, very-- _nice_ person."

His chin dug into Roger's shoulder. Roger reached behind to put his hand on Rafa's hip, anywhere, just to make contact. Rafa groaned his name and thrust his hips shakily.

Roger watched him in the mirror until his own orgasm overtook him almost by surprise. He came into the porcelain basin, white on white, his voice cracking upwards in a high moan. Rafa made a muffled noise and ground his hips forward, and then Roger felt the slick warmth on his inner thighs. He could barely stand.

"Roger," said Rafa, sounding dazed. His eyes were shut, his soft full mouth open slightly, nose pushed into Roger's hair. He looped his arms around Roger's waist. "Ahh, Roger."

"I'm going to collapse if I don't lie down."

Rafa dragged him back to the bed. They tumbled down, side by side. "Siesta," Rafa mumbled, and he put his hand on Roger's stomach, heavy and possessive, and began to softly snore.

Roger woke up to raised voices in the house, in the kitchen. His bedroom door stood open. Beyond it was another white painted wall with a painting of the bay, and a white and blue clay pot on a dark wooden table.

Roger listened, but could hardly catch any of the dialect. He heard Rafa, and a woman's voice. He lay back on the pillows, for a moment too sleepy and dazed to properly even worry about it.

He looked at the pillow next to him. There was the indentation caused by Rafa's head, and a single long black hair curled there. He'd had sex with Rafa. They'd had sex, on purpose. They'd come here for this, and it'd happened. And then they'd gone to sleep together.

"Oh my fucking god," Roger said, and put his hands over his face.

A door slammed, and footsteps slapped towards the room. Rafa appeared, in just his jeans. His colour was hectic, and his hair was a crazy tangle, which he made worse by jamming his hand through it. He stood at the foot of the bed and pinned Roger with an angry glare.

"The maid came. This Lucia. I never even know her! With her own key!"

Roger pushed himself up. The room was cool, and he shivered. He saw Rafa's gaze drop to his chest. "Did she see us?" he asked. There wasn't a delicate way round it.

Rafa looked at him, then came to sit on the bed. He put his hand on Roger's duvet clad thigh.

"No," he said, very seriously, gazing into Roger's eyes. "She never got this far."

Roger shifted on the sheets. They were sticking to him in places they'd never stuck before. There was still Rafa's semen between his thighs, damp and making his skin itch. Rafa was watching him, his mouth turned down. He looked sorely confused. Roger touched his shoulder.

"Do you want some food?" Roger said.

"Ah, uh, okay."

Rafa watched him dress, then followed him to the kitchen. There was a toaster and there was a small loaf of brown bread. Roger found a knife and a chopping board, sliced bread and dropped it in the toaster.

"I have a coffee machine," Rafa said, warily, tapping a black and sleek object that squatted on the slate countertop. "It's this one." Their eyes met. Rafa looked so young and scared for a moment that Roger felt actually sick. "Can I make you coffee?" Rafa asked.

"You sure you can work out how to use it?"

Rafa's lips twisted in a reluctant smile. "Yes," he said, and stabbed at a button. It lit up red.

Roger found butter in the fridge and four jars of nutella in one of the cupboards. The scent of brewing coffee filled the kitchen, along with toasted bread. They calmed him, the scents of every day, of getting up on the weekend and having some hours to themselves to read the newspapers and eat and talk about nothing. That was with Mirka though, not Rafa. She hadn't asked him to phone her. Conspicuously had not asked.

Roger plastered everything on the toast, sliced it, and took it to Rafa.

"Eat this."

Rafa devoured it in a few seconds, then nodded and rubbed at his face with his hands. "Thank you," he said. His eyes were soft and pleading. "Sorry, Roger."

"For what?"

"This maid. It could've been very bad."

Roger made himself shrug. "It happened. We're okay." He pushed the other slice of toast at Rafa. "You need more food."

Rafa made him coffee, carefully asking how much milk he liked, if he wanted sugar—brown or white-- putting it in a nice cup and saucer. Roger made them more toast, and they took it out to the patio.

The wooden chairs were warmed by the sun. There were beetles and butterflies moving about in the clumps of fat orange flowers by the path. The sea was a deeper blue now, and the air smelled of salt and baked earth and the faint spicy smell of thyme and lavender. The sun gleamed down on Rafa's bare chest.

"The maid comes every day?" Roger said.

Rafa gnawed his thumb and shot Roger a dark glance. "I tell her not to come back."

"You mean, you're going to make me do my own laundry?"

Rafa chewed on his lip like he hadn't understood at all, and then he leaned right into Roger's space and put a hand on Roger's cheek.

"I can't believe this, you know?" he said. The profile of his nose was set against the blue of the sea. "You—here." He stared hard at Roger. "Everything."

Roger thought of the mirror in the bathroom and what they'd done together in front of it. He wondered if Rafa were thinking about that too. Rafa smelled good, even if not very clean. He reached up and took Rafa's hand in his.

"Do you want to play golf?"

"Yes," Rafa nodded, squeezing his fingers with what felt a lot like relief. "With you."

Out in the bay, a small boat whizzed along, its engine droning, and Roger couldn't help but turn his head and stare. Rafa dropped his hand and sighed.

"I lied," he said. "To the press."

"What about?" Roger said, warily.

"Where I built my house. It's on the other side of the island. This is what they think. I buyed one there also."

"What? That's totally crafty."

Rafa looked pleased. "Is clever, no?"

They went inside to wash and to change. The shower in Roger's bathroom was slightly too low, so that he got a blast of water directly on the top of his head. He leaned into it and washed his hair and his face. The shower gel smelled expensive, the same scent as Rafa's hair. Water drummed against his skull. He wondered what his mother would say if she knew what he was doing. They'd be disappointed in his attitude.

Rafa was waiting in the kitchen, sucking a fingernail. He was back in the same clothes, with that t-shirt that clung a little too much. Not that Roger minded, at all. Rafa leaned close to him, in his space.

"You need golf shoes. You can borrow them there, no?" He grinned and quirked his mouth, tilting his head to look into Roger's eyes. "You have the big feet."

"Big everything, you know?"

Rafa went red, slowly and very beautifully, but he kept his gaze steady. It flickered with heat, and Roger got a tight feeling in his stomach, like he needed to sit down.

"I—yeah. I know this now," Rafa said.

The golf course was around the headland, set very close to the rocky coast. Sprinklers were on, and the clubhouse was sleek and chic in dark glossy wood and pale marble. The manager came out, there was smiling and handshaking. Roger admired the place, and the manager seemed overjoyed. He told Roger he was looking forward to his return to tennis.

"Me as well," Rafa said, pointedly. A guy appeared with a small camera, the cheap snappy kind. "I can say them no," Rafa said.

Roger thought about it, and as he did his heartrate picked up, unexpectedly and overwhelmingly. Almost no one knew they were here. This was their secret.

"A few snaps are fine, right?" he said to Rafa, and Rafa nodded, holding his gaze.

They posed side by side and then they were allowed to escape. The manager insisted on them having a golf cart.

Rafa was pretty rubbish at golf, and it showed in his sulky face when Roger beat him on nearly every hole. A breeze blew in from the sea, getting choppy now in the afternoon as the currents changed. The sun made his skin tingle and the colours seemed extra bright and clean and solid. They talked about Rafa's new orthotic insoles, Novak's latest publicity blunder, football, Roger's physio's advice for ankle strengthening—everything apart from what they'd just done in Rafa's spare room. The sun and shadow made Rafa's face look carved out of stone, except when he smiled, which was mostly when he looked at Roger. On the last hole, when he came in at 4 under par and Rafa at 13 over, he put his hand on Rafa's shoulder.

"I'll make it up to you later," he said.

Rafa stared at him. The moment stretched out, and Roger was glad that the fairways were deserted. "I want you," Rafa said.

***

Rafa woke him at 6am with slow wet kisses, already rubbing himself against Roger's thigh. A few hours before, Rafa had fucked him, slow and gently the first time, harder the second.

"We fish later, no?" he said.

"If we have to."

"I make you, yes."

They stayed in bed for hours, again, until Rafa dragged them both up and out and down to the beach. The sand was blinding and burnt his feet before he skipped into the water. No one was about, at all. Roger could look at Rafa's body all he wanted. He was allowed to stare.

"Do you know how sexy you are? Roger said, watching Rafa do something complicated with a fishing net and some sort of pin. He was sitting on an unturned lobster pot, one that was fuzzy with frayed orange rope.

Rafa looked up, under the curls of black hair. His toes were dug into the pale sand. He looked pink and glowing and also kind of tired. "Huh," he said, with a sharp smile. "Maybe I know. So, tell me of the ankle. I want to know everything."

Words flowed between them, as they always had done, broken and jostled by half learned languages. There was a lot to talk about. Everything, in fact, apart from what they were doing here. They spent an absorbing three hours discussing a new structure for the entire tour. Roger ran back to the house to get a pen and some paper so they could make notes, and Rafa made a diagram.

"Wait, we want we join up with WTA?" Rafa said, at one point.

"Yeah, of course. It makes the most sense."

"You watch the women's tennis?"

"Of course I do. You don't?"

"No. I too busy. And there is football."

"Maybe you should watch it sometime, it's good."

"You watch with Mirka?"

"No," Roger said. "She barely watches it these days. She also says she's too busy."

Rafa fiddled with a sea smooth pebble, then flipped it out across the sand to the water's edge. "We have something in common," he said.

"Yeah," said Roger. "You do."

It rained later. Roger hadn't known it could rain on the beach. It'd never happened to him before, so he let himself stand and get wet. Rafa stared at him hungrily, then pulled him back up to the house. He led Roger inside, just to the hallway, then with a groan he knelt, hooking his fingers around the waistband of Roger's shorts. He pulled them down and pressed his hot wet mouth straight to Roger's cock.

"Oh God," Roger moaned, staring down. He gently touched Rafa's head, stroking his hair back from his face. "That's so good," he said, stiffening between Rafa's lips. "Rafa... you feel so good."

Rafa's eyelids fluttered and he made a low sound deep in his chest. He held onto to Roger's thighs, stroking at them with his hands, pushing his shorts further down. He moved his tongue and lips slowly and with a lot of care. Roger gazed at him, hardly daring to move in case Rafa decided to stop. Rafa's dick stuck up inside his thin shorts, tenting them, moving slightly each time Rafa dipped his head.

Rain splattered on the door. Roger remembered they'd left Rafa's diagrams out there, and they were probably ruined. It didn't matter, he thought, letting Rafa's hair fall through his fingers. They could do it again. Rafa was sitting on his knees, feet splayed awkwardly, and Roger could see the curl of his toes. He worried that Rafa might be uncomfortable.

"Are you-- okay? Rafa?" Roger managed, and Rafa nodded, speechless and with his mouth full, nails scratching on Roger's skin. He pulled back a couple of inches, enough to free his mouth.

"I always think of this," Rafa said, in a thick, hoarse voice. "You in my mouth."

Roger stumbled back two steps until he hit the wall, because his knees weren't feeling so strong anymore, and Rafa followed, sliding close. He thought about doing the same for Rafa. They could do it together, to each other at the same time. Rafa stroked him and sucked the head of his cock until Roger's hips jerked forward. His shorts gave up and slid to the floor, leaving him naked.

"Oh, Jesus, Rafa," he gasped.

"Mmmh," Rafa said, and pushed closer, putting his hands tight on Roger's waist, holding him to the wall as Roger came in his mouth.

Roger touched his hair and his face, and then helped Rafa to stand up. They clung together in the hallway, propped against the wall.

"Let's go to bed," Roger said, his hand travelling down the long sleek curve of Rafa's waist.

"That would be very nice," Rafa said, very breathlessly. "Yes."

They stumbled out of bed later, as the sun set. Rafa rattled around in the kitchen, scratching his chest and muttering something about dinner. Roger wandered down to the beach and found the soggy remains of the tour diagram. It had a small blotchy drawing of each player.

"My nose isn't that big," he complained, a little later. Rafa was leaning next to the microwave, defrosting some peas. Fish grilled on the stove, and the air was fragrant with cooking smells. "Do you really think it's that big?"

Rafa poked at the pasta and raised his eyebrows. "Big nose is lucky in Spain."

"You're making that up."

They ate on the sofa, watching random things on Eurosport while commentators yelled. Tour de France, rally, snooker. Rafa had opinions on it all, and strong ones. There was tennis, inevitably: Andy Murray crushing Rafa in Miami.

They watched in silence, until Rafa sighed. His upper arm was wedged up against Roger's and his foot was curled under him and nudged carelessly against Roger's thigh.

"What do you think of this?" said Rafa, as he watched himself.

Roger cleared his throat. "Of you? Or the match. Or Andy?"

Rafa shrugged. "Andy first."

"I mean, he's really your main rival now."

"For sure," Rafa said, briefly scowling. "He's like you. The late developer, no?" Rafa picked at the seam of a cushion, watching at his own failure on the screen. That was the bad part of tennis; there was nowhere to hide, ever. You were served up just like the yellow ball. Some people, it just ate them up.

"It was a poor loss," Rafa said.

"No. It was a good win for him. But you didn't play that good, it's true."

Rafa turned his head and gave him a lingering look. "I like it that you don't lie."

"Rafa. I hate lying. What's the point?"

Rafa settled against him. He leaned his head against Roger's shoulder, tentatively, then more heavily when he realised Roger wasn't going to object. "Say me some more about how I play," he said.

Roger looked down at the top of his head and had to smile. "Sure. Where do I start?"

He started with Rafa's service games and didn't run out of things to say until hours later. He talked about Rafa's movement (very good) and about his own shortcomings (not that many) and how they compared generally and then more specifically, and then he found himself telling Rafa what he could do to get better. What he needed to do to beat practically any player Rafa could name. Rafa laid his head in Roger's lap and listened to everything.

"Did you decide yet?" Rafa said, finally. It was late enough for the moon to be high up over the sea.

"About what?" Roger said, lifting a strand of hair away from Rafa's eyes.

"The tennis. Your tennis." He was staring up at Roger with a disturbing expression. Roger couldn't work out if it was irritation or awe, or both. "You tell me this stuff, about how I can beat you, everyone—how I get better." His voice was still throaty, just like it'd been this afternoon. Roger slid his hand under the neck of Rafa's shirt. "It's like— " Rafa waved a hand, "-- gold and diamonds. Too valuable."

"What's the point of keeping it all to myself?"

"You talk like you never need the strategy again."

Rafa sat up and swung his feet to the floor. He stretched and yawned and contrived to press up against Roger once more.

"You sleep with me," Rafa said, more statement of certainty than request. His nose was about three inches from Roger's.

"Do you ever want something and then not get it?" Roger asked. Rafa's palm was warm in his.

"All the time," Rafa said, and they walked together through the house, holding hands.

***

"Be gentle with me," Roger said, as they walked onto the court the next morning. Birds were singing. The sky was the unlikely blue of full summer. Rafa was dressed in all white.

"Oh yeah, I will, no?" said Rafa, and his smile became more bashful. Roger remembered him last night, in bed, hands moving over Roger's body like it was the most precious thing he'd ever held.

Rafa _was_ gentle with him, taking him through a routine that Roger recognised. He'd watched Rafa hit like this with Toni. When they stopped for water, Roger made himself ask.

"Does he know about this?" Roger said.

Rafa flopped down next to him on the wooden bench. He put his elbows on his knees and ran a hand over his wet forehead. He bumped his knee against Roger's. Sweat was running off them both. Rafa's left foot was jiggling up and down and he made a sound somewhere between amused and appalled. He shook his head.

"Does Mirka know why you come here?" he said.

Roger picked at the handle of his racquet. It was suddenly fascinating.

"Does Xisca know?"

"Eh, not exactly," said Rafa.

Of all the places they could've picked to have this conversation, a tennis court bench was weirdly appropriate.

"This is where it gets complicated, I guess," Roger said. He flicked a small pebble off the court with the tip of the racquet.

"Gets?" said Rafa.

"All right, continues to be."

"So… " Rafa said.

"I think she knows."

"Oh," Rafa said. He sounded a bit shaky.

They didn't talk about what was going to happen at the end of Roger's stay, or afterwards. Roger guessed this was by silent mutual agreement. Roger had no idea what to say.

After a few moments, Rafa squeezed his knee. "We should train more."

"More?"

"You very slow. Kind of clumsy too."

Roger chased him round the court, just to show him.

The days passed in Rafa's house, each one different and seeming to last longer than normal days. From the banal to the sublime, he did things he'd done every day for years, and also things he'd never dreamed of doing. They read the paper, watched TV, Rafa made him put creosote on the fence behind the vegetable patch. They didn't go shopping or answer the few phonecalls that came through.

"I couldn't ever live like this," Roger said, when they were in the garden in shorts, getting splashed with sticky brown creosote. Rafa dropped his brush and gave him a horrified look.

"Huh? You what?"

"I mean-- because of the secrecy," Roger said. "The lying."

Rafa screwed up his nose. It just made him look cuter, Roger thought, whatever he did. The bastard.

"Lying seems to be very-- necessary," Rafa said at last. He scratched at his eyebrow and huffed a sigh. "Doesn't it? For the sakes of the other people that we love."

Roger nodded, and they let the conversation drift to something else.

***

Lying on his back in Rafa's bed the day before he was supposed to leave, with Rafa dozing next to him, Roger thought about Rafa saying he'd wanted this for years. He hadn't slept next to anyone but Mirka for most of a decade. The thought flooded him with guilt, as it had done all week. It made his skin burn, like a sudden fever. He shook Rafa's shoulder until Rafa sighed and smiled and opened his eyes.

"Rogelio," he murmured. He looped an arm around Roger's neck and pulled him close, so that Roger's face was pressed to the join of shoulder and neck, his nose squashed against Rafa's collarbone. Rafa dug his hand into Roger's hair and rubbed at his scalp with strong fingers, not hard enough to hurt, just enough for Roger to feel it.

"That feels good," Roger mumbled. He'd said that a hell of a lot this week. He played with the sparse hair on Rafa's chest until Rafa took hold of his fingers and kissed them. Rafa's chin was rough with beard growth, and his nose was slightly burnt from the hours they'd spent in the sun yesterday; tennis, training, fishing, swimming. Roger rolled fully on top of him, enjoying Rafa's surprised squeak, then took his wrists and pinned his arms above his head, on the pillow. He looked down at Rafa's body, admiring the long stretch of his ribs and underarms.

They couldn't stay here. Roger tried not to think about how much his life was going to change.

"Roger?" Rafa said, softly. He'd spread his thighs almost unconsciously, sliding against Roger's. "You want me this way?" he said, very quietly.

"Maybe. Can I?" Roger said, and tightened his grip on Rafa's wrists. He pushed down with his hips.

"Uuhn, fuck," Rafa whispered. "Si, yes, yes. Anything."

"You know, just because I gave you that advice, don't think I'm going to let you win everything."

Rafa opened his eyes wide, staring. "This means—" he searched for words-- "you stay with the tennis?"

"I don't want to talk about tennis right now," Roger said.

They'd done things together this week that were going to make Roger blush to remember them when they met in public. That was going to be awkward, he thought, as he let go of Rafa and picked up the lube. He watched in something that felt like awe as Rafa slid his feet apart, pulling ripples across the white sheets. Roger put some lube on his fingers and knelt closer, leaning over him propped on one hand.

"Tell me if you want to stop."

Rafa nodded, watching him, his hands floating down to rest lightly on his chest. Roger distracted him as much as he could with kisses, but he drank in Rafa's soft surprised moans and his half whispered curses and gasps as he slid his finger inside him. They clung together and both of them moaned.

Until a week ago, Roger hadn't had the faintest idea about how to go about this. Rafa had been very gentle and caring and unsurprised at Roger's lack of knowledge, and Roger had wondered what that meant about both of them. In the end he'd decided he wasn't going to worry about it.

Rafa found his lips and kissed him, breathing his name as Roger rocked against him. He was blindingly hot inside, tight around Roger's finger. Rafa moaned, pushing with hips.

"Can we?" he said. "Can we? Like this?"

"It's not the easiest position, you know," Roger said, smiling down at him, and Rafa muttered something in Spanish, half cut off by another small moan.

"I not want 'easy'," he said.

"Do you ever?," Roger muttered. They kissed, long and hot and messy. Roger eased Rafa's legs back, not too much because Rafa wasn't the stretchiest person, and Rafa made a muffled cry when Roger finally pushed into his body. He flung his head back on the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut as he took it.

"Does it hurt?" Roger said, thickly. He slid his hand up the back of Rafa's thigh to the tight skin at the back of his knee. The hollow there was warm and smooth, like velvet. "Rafa? Tell me."

"Nooo, no. Is okay. Is—good."

Minutes seemed to pass with no movement, only breathing and kissing, until Roger's pulse evened out, and Rafa began to move against him, only small rocking motions, but it was enough to make Roger think he wasn't going to last long. Rafa was clenching down with his body, impossibly hot.

"Yeah," Rafa mumbled, as Roger held onto his hip and eased in deeper, stretching him wider. "Oh, si, like this, inside, it's good… "

They moved a little more. Roger began to thrust, taking it as slow as he could. Rafa gazed up at him, mouth open. His hands drifted back up to the pillow, palms up. Roger stared at them for a moment, then flattened his palm across Rafa's wrists, pinning them as best he could. The awkward angle made it difficult to use any real pressure, but all the same Rafa responded with a small shaky moan, rolling his head to one side to muffle it. Roger tightened his grip and Rafa moaned again, still muffled.

"Who's going to hear you, Rafa?" said Roger, staring at the strands of wet hair that stuck to Rafa's cheek, curling to his lips. "No one's here." He leaned lower, sinking in deeper. His heart started to pound, and he bent over and pressed his forehead to Rafa's. "Be as loud as you want."

Rafa gave him a wild dark look and clamped his lips tight, then he let out a tight moan. "Roger," he said, louder. His caught fingers curled in tight and he twisted his hips, rocking himself harder onto Roger's cock, his moans becoming sharper and louder until they filled the room and seemed to bounce off the walls. He groped for Roger's free hand.

"I need—Roger—Si, please—I need it— Do it-- "

"Shit, sorry."

Roger palmed his cock, rubbing the length, and Rafa's mouth stretched in something that looked like half laughter and half sheer joy. It was possible to forget the outside world and everything beyond the bedroom, even beyond the bed. There were only Rafa's eyes and lips and heat.

Roger came before him, holding him down and fucking into his body in just a few hard, short strokes. He stared down at Rafa's spread ass, at the way his balls bounced against Rafa's skin. He had him spread open and pinned and Rafa was nearly _screaming_ for it.

He blanked out for some moments, everything fizzing to white noise, and then he became aware of Rafa saying his name. He looked down to see a little white lake of come on Rafa's stomach, pooling around his belly button. Rafa was panting, and his face was bright pink.

Roger let go of his wrists, kissed him and stroked his damp hair, then pulled out slowly. Rafa winced and wriggled and made faces, then found a stray sock and wiped off his stomach. He pulled Roger close, so that their sweaty thighs stuck together. Rafa's stomach was still sticky. They both smelled pretty bad.

"I—take it in the ass," Rafa whispered, across the pillow, exactly as if he was saying something romantic. "I like it." He gave Roger a sweetly bemused smile.

"I need to learn Spanish," Roger said, touching his mouth. The world still seemed very far away.

"Por qué?" said Rafa, taking his hand.

"I get the feeling you're more eloquent in Spanish."

"Eloquent? Ah. You mean, with expression?" Their fingers laced together and Rafa moved closer, closing the already tiny gap between them.

"Yeah," Roger said. His eyes were beginning to close. "That."

He drifted off to Rafa telling him things in Mallorqúin, he didn't know what. He got the feeling that he wasn't meant to understand them.

***

Rafa's house had a wine cellar. Rafa's dad had insisted on it, apparently. It was a small dark room with red tiles on the floor and two small racks of wine. A crate of champagne stood in one corner, half empty.

"We only need one bottle," Rafa said, then raised a dubious eyebrow at Roger. "No?"

"We don't drink very much, do we?" Roger said, and Rafa shook his head.

"Hardly nothing."

"White wine? What about this chardonnay?" Roger said. For their last dinner together, Rafa was cooking fish and rice. It was exactly the same meal they'd had all week but Roger didn't mind. He was impressed with Rafa's skills; they were a lot more advanced than his own. Mirka despaired of him ever learning anything beyond toast. But what was the point when there was room service or eating out, or, well, Mirka. He flushed with guilt again.

Rafa leaned down and pulled out a bottle of champagne. "This one," he said. "We should have this."

Roger would be leaving in the morning. Neither of them had said much about it, apart from Rafa asking what he'd wanted washing. He'd put in a load of laundry, and now it was drying on the line in the garden. Roger's underwear and tennis kits and golfing clothes. He hadn't worn much, really, the past few days. Rafa put a hand on his waist and kissed his cheek.

"The sun is setting," he said.

They watched it from the beach, sitting together on a half shredded sisal mat. They drank the champagne from plastic glasses that had tacky pink and blue flowers on, the sort that came in cheap plastic picnic sets. The champagne was cool and buttery and rich, and the bubbles made his tongue prickle. Rafa said they should drink to the future, and to tennis, and to themselves, so they did.

"Where are you going next?" Rafa said, after a little while, twisting one finger into the sand.

"Dubai." Roger said. "I'm going to start training."

He couldn’t miss Rafa's smile; no one could, even if they were sitting on the other side of the bay.

"This is a great idea for you. Masters Cup is still possible. You can do this, I know it."

"Yeah? Well, we'll see."

They'd played yesterday, not as hard as they could've. He'd taken Rafa in two sets, but only just. When it came down to it, 27—so very nearly 28—was along way from 23. Two more slams felt as daunting as a mountain range.

"Where are you going to be?" Roger asked.

Rafa shrugged. "Mallorca, same thing as you. Training. Toni say me I have to come home tomorrow. My relaxing is over."

Roger half wanted to ask what Rafa was going to tell people about his holiday. _I had sex with Roger all week long._ He finished his glass and felt his skin prickle. What was Mirka going to want to know? All of it? None of it? They'd have to talk about it. He wished there were rules for this kind of thing.

Rafa nudged his arm and filled up his glass again, fishing the bottle from its plastic bucket.

"You thinking too much," Rafa said. "I always see with you." There was sunset light caught in his eyes. It made them glow gold. The laugh lines around his mouth and eyes were getting deeper. He touched his glass to Roger's and they drank. Rafa poured them more.

"How can you tell if I'm thinking to much?"

"Is simple, for sure," Rafa said, making an expansive gesture with his hand. "The eyes in your head go blank, the brain begins to make the ticking noises, is obvious. You working out how to beat me. Then you beat me. Or you lose bad."

"Okay, so Mr Backhand wasn't so clever yesterday. It doesn't mean anything."

Rafa slung an arm around his neck and dug a finger into Roger's rib. Roger squirmed back on the sand, making a bad girly-sounding squeal.

"Señor Backhand was _terrible_."

"No, ahh! Don't, that-- _tickles_. Jesus you're strong."

"Stronger than you, no?"

"Get off, stop!"

Fighting off a half naked Rafa was almost impossible, and anyway his heart wasn't in it. They rolled in the sand. Roger got what felt like about half the beach down his shorts. Rafa found a tiny squashed crab stuck to his shoulder and was sad. Finally, they lay flat on the cooling sand with the stars gleaming down at them. The sky was an impossible cobalt, deep and vivid.

"Is easy to forget something," Rafa said, breaking their silence. He turned his head in the sand. "Will you remember this?"

He reached over and dropped something on Roger's chest. It was small and cool – a pale bleached seashell. It was pink and glossy inside, smooth and hard when Roger touched it.

"Yeah," Roger said, looking down at where it sat in his palm. "I'll never forget it."

Their conversation meandered back around to tennis, as it always did. They drank another glass each. Rafa's head was on his shoulder and Rafa's breath was warm against his neck, his fingers stroking an unsteady line down Roger's stomach.

They were outside, unprotected by any walls. It dawned on Roger how vulnerable they were. For a crazy stupid moment, he almost longed for them to be caught on some paparazzo's super long lens, revealing them as lovers. He was pondering the outcomes of that, digging his toes into the cool sand half in terror, when Rafa spoke.

"So look," Rafa said, then sighed impatiently, like he was struggling to think "My English—shit. I want to be with you more."

"You're serious?"

Rafa turned and sat up to face him. A small shower of sand fell from his shoulder and he frowned deeply. "Yes. I would not say this."

Rafa's face was so open and honest. It seemed ages before either of them looked away, but Rafa did first. Roger caught his hand, and Rafa looked back.

"I thought a week might be enough," Roger said, and prayed that Rafa understood what he meant by that. "For us."

"Yes," Rafa said, nodding. "Me as well."

"That didn't work so well."

"Not very well." Rafa gripped his hand more tightly. He brought Roger's fingers to his lips. He kissed them, like he was kissing something precious or bestowing a blessing like a priest. Roger's skin tingled. The ground seemed not as steady as it should.

"Hey, Raf."

"What, Roger?"

Roger sat up and shuffled closer on his knees, until he was almost sitting on Rafa's lap. He put his hands on his shoulders, fiddling with the ends of Rafa's hair and running his fingers over the hard muscles of Rafa's neck. Rafa gazed up, slightly open mouthed.

"I never even kissed another man before this."

Rafa put his arms around Roger's waist. "Oh my god," he said, sounding totally not shocked. "I never believe this."

"You could tell, right?" Roger said.

"Only when you not know anything about gay sex," Rafa said, squeezing him.

They went indoors after that, because it was getting late and Rafa's stomach was making a lot of noise. They ate quickly, with fork and fingers, standing up in the kitchen. Roger was starving for carbs, he realised, and Rafa was too. It must be the alcohol. Maybe all the sex too. And the healthy sea air, as his mum would say.

"I should pack up my stuff soon," he said, when they were done. "I don't have much time in the morning."

"Is sensible," Rafa said, with a twist of his mouth.

"Yeah, sensible."

They loaded up the dishwasher. Rafa tidied around, beating the sofa cushions into shape, putting the magazines into a pile, picking up the random socks and shorts and t-shirts that were roosting on chairs and under tables. Roger brought the laundry in. He dumped it on the bed in his room, thinking about what he'd wear tomorrow.

He rolled up his t-shirts and shirts and jeans feeling like somehow he had changed his entire life, almost with his eyes closed. He wasn't going to retire. And there was Rafa.

He heard Rafa singing to himself in the kitchen, banging things about. It'd be a good thing to leave, to get a clear head. He rubbed at his face and sighed, and then carried on packing. Why had be brought all these shoes?

He sensed Rafa behind him rather than heard him. He turned and Rafa was just there, watching and waiting.

"Come to bed with me?" Rafa said. He held out a hand, looking worried like Roger might say no.

Roger tried to imagine it and failed. He hugged Rafa to his side, an arm round his waist and they hobbled uncomfortably through the door—it wasn't wide enough for the two of them side by side-- and along the corridor. They didn't speak. Rafa melted against him, saying everything with his body that might not be possible with his words.


End file.
